Journey into the Amazon

Women of the Huaorani

In the longhouse an elderly woman motioned for me to take a seat
beside her. She had flat breasts, a confusion of beaded necklaces,
extended ear lobes and a number of faded tattoos trickling across
her torso.

Small talk with strangers is difficult at the best of times.
When it is with a topless Amazonian tribeswoman who has a
nasty-looking scar across her belly and there are no common
acquaintances to gossip about, it can be a real struggle.

Through two translators (English to Spanish, Spanish to
Huaorani) I tried to make light chitchat about my day: I had come
from Quito, such a long drive, the flight from Shell had been
smooth, charming pilot, happy to arrive in Huaorani territory,
blah, blah, blah. She said nothing. Her expression said:
'BORING.'

I decided to shift the conversation, such as it was, to her. I
made the mistake of enquiring about her health. She hardly knew
where to begin. Her knees hurt, she had a terrible stiffness in her
hips, one of her teeth was aching, she had a headache, appalling
flatulence, an incipient fever, and some issue with her private
parts - she illustrated this with a sound slap between her legs -
that I didn't want to know about.

Five minutes in Huaorani society and I was stuck with the Health
Bore. She was about to start into an account of her various
digestive issues when the translator deftly switched the subject by
asking about the river - always a reliable topic around a Huaorani
fire.

'High,' she said, with admirable brevity. In terms of
interest, the river was clearly a long way below her lower
intestines, but she persevered with the subject. How was the river
in my country, she wanted to know.

'Not too bad,' I floundered, realising that I had no idea.
'Navigable,' I added. 'Few obstacles near the bridge,' I said,
remembering the Sainsbury's shopping trolley I had noticed when
speeding past one day.

She laughed at some thought that had suddenly occurred to her.
'He reminds me of Newa,' she said to the translator. Newa, a
relation dead for some years, had been tall like me and a great
warrior who killed many Quichua when they invaded Huaorani
territory in search of girls. She gripped my thigh and squeezed it
hard as if to confirm the resemblance.

'Just like Newa. Big man with the spear.' Was this a euphemism?
Who knows? It was time to go. A boat was waiting. 'Go carefully,'
she said, suddenly solicitous now that my likeness to the famed
Quichua-killer had been established.

We waved goodbye and made our way along a muddy path to the
river. 'She is quite a famous character,' the guide said. 'Her name
is Weba. She is the woman who chopped the heads off the
missionaries 50 years ago.'